One weekend not too long ago was instructive in the highs and lows of British tourism and showed why we can be the best in the world, and the worst too.

After a speaking engagement near Glasgow, we took the chance to enjoy a weekend on the West Coast of Scotland. A pin in the map landed on Oban, largely because I'm a great fan of the splendid malt whisky bearing the town's name. My theory was that, even if everything else went wrong, the whisky would remove the pain, and it turned out that I was pretty psychic in that direction.

The trip up from Glasgow on a fine weekend was simply beautiful with every bend in the road bringing a gorgeous view; even the crawl past Loch Lomond in a traffic jam was scenic.

Now the bad news. As a stranger to the area, I'd chosen the hotel with a spot of internet browsing. The Oban & District website looked good, and I emailed them with a request for some more information. Much later, I'm still waiting for a reply. Anyway, this hotel in Oban, with a reasonable weekend rate, sounded just right; "traditional Scottish hospitality with quality modern surroundings". They were telling a macporkie!

The welcome at the reception desk was novel.

"Right, you have a choice of sittings for dinner - 7, 7.15, 7.30, 7.45 or 8, 'cos we're busy."

Wondering how you can eat dinner in fourteen minutes, and checking for a moment that we hadn't stumbled into a pre-war holiday camp nostalgia weekend, I opted for eight'o'clock.

Down for dinner at eight to find the dining room two thirds empty, and we soon found out why. The chap who showed us to our table was a stranger to both bathroom and deodorant, and that set the worry beads rattling. A wise man once told me never to eat in a place where the staff honk. As he said, if the guy in charge is happy with that kind of public presentation, just think what he'll let go in his private kitchen.

In quick succession, this alarming opening was followed by stale bread, a starter with a piece of smoked salmon smaller that an Oxo cube, and a pint of bitter which smelled worse than the waiter. A brewery friend tells me that bad smells, from beer rather than staff, usually come from low standards in simple routines like cellar management and pipe cleaning.

A polite but firm conversation with the duty manager, which seemed to be no surprise to him, preceded our exit from the hotel in search of a meal.

What we found, less than five minutes walk away, was quite simply superb. The Waterfront Restaurant, with great views over the bay, produced a beautiful atmosphere, a magnificent seafood experience, and top value.

Two possibilities emerge, and both are distressing. Either, the management at the hotel never go out to a local restaurant and realise the low quality they churn out, or, even worse, they do regularly eat at somewhere like the Waterfront and treat their visitors with total disdain.

The next morning, to set the world right, we visited the Oban distillery, and these people were the perfect antidote to restore the town's reputation for hospitality. Frances and Carol who did the tour were wonderful, and really enthused over the whisky story, with a caskful of fascinating information. The tour includes a compulsory dram or two, and a parting visit to their shop is warmly recommended. The usual 14 year old Oban is great, but the 20 year old aged in sherry casks is like an angel's tears. Happily, when I have a weekend tipple of my souvenir bottle, it's the good things of Oban which come to mind rather than Fawlty McTowers.

Published: 22/11/2002